Disturbances in Aungier Street

It's not worth telling, this story of mine – at least, not worth writing. When I've told it, as I have sometimes been asked to do, to a group of intelligent and eager faces, lit up by a good after-dinner fire on a winter's evening, with a cold wind outside and everyone warm and cosy by the fire, it has pleased everyone. But it's a difficult thing you ask of me. Pen and paper are a much colder way of telling a horror story and a 'reader' is definitely more critical than a 'listener.' If, however, you can persuade your friends to read it after dark on a windy, wintry night, I'll go to work and do the best I can. Well then, I'll waste no more words, but tell you simply how it all happened.

My cousin, Tom Ludlow, and I studied medicine together. I think he would have succeeded, if he'd stayed with the profession, but he preferred not to and died early from disease, caught while working for the sick and poor. He was a quiet but frank and cheerful man, very honest, and a little excitable.

My uncle – Tom's father – while we were going to university, bought three or four old houses in Aungier Street, one of which was empty. He lived in the countryside and Tom suggested we live in it, as long as there was no tenant. This would have the double benefit of being nearer to university and not costing anything.

We didn't have much furniture and so our new plan was put into action almost as soon as we'd thought of it. The front room was our living room. Tom had the back bedroom on the same floor and I took the bedroom above it.

The house was a very old one. The front had been renovated about fifty years before but, with this exception, it had nothing modern about it. How old it was I can't say but, at all events, it had seen enough years to get that mysterious, sad look, both exciting and depressing, which belongs to most old houses.

The old woman, who kept a little shop in the road and who got tea ready at five o'clock every morning in our apartment, remembered when old Judge Horrocks (who had the reputation of being a 'hanging judge,' but ended by hanging himself with a child's skipping-rope over the massive old staircase) lived there. The old woman's daughter, who was already in her fifties, came every day to clean and make our beds.

The bedrooms were decorated with dark wood but the front one was not gloomy. But the back bedroom, Tom's, had two strangely-placed windows at the end of the bed and a shadowy alcove. At night-time, this alcove had, in my eyes, a sinister character. Tom's candle only glimmered faintly into its darkness. But this was only part of the effect. The whole room was, to me, horrible. I can't tell you why. There was something in its shape and appearance which suggested danger, and it worried me. Nothing could have persuaded me to spend a night alone in it.

I never pretended to hide my superstition from poor Tom and he openly ridiculed my fears. He was, however, going to learn his lesson, as you'll hear.

We hadn't been living in our bedrooms very long when I began to have uneasy nights and disturbed sleep. I was impatient about this, as I was usually a sound sleeper and never had nightmares. But, after some terrifying dreams, they began to repeat themselves and the same vision visited me most nights.

Now, the nightmare always went like this:

I saw, or thought I saw, in the total darkness, every piece of furniture very clearly in the room where I lay. This, as you know, is quite common in nightmares. Well, my attention became fixed on the windows opposite the end of my bed and, every night, a sense of dreadful anticipation took control of me. I became aware of someone making horrible preparations somewhere to torture me. After an interval, which always seemed the same length, a picture suddenly flew up to the window, where it remained and my horror then lasted perhaps for hours.

The picture mysteriously fixed to the window was the portrait of an old man, in a red silk dressing gown, with a face showing a strange mixture of intelligence, sensuality and power but – especially – sinister intentions. His nose was like a vulture's beak; his eyes were large, grey and lit up with cruelty and coldness. His hair was white with age, while the eyebrows kept their original blackness. I remember every line and shadow of that stony face! His gaze was fixed on me and I looked back with the terrible fascination which nightmares often have, for hours of agony. At last, morning arrived and the devil who'd made me his slave all night finally went away.

I did not – I can't say exactly why – describe the exact nature of my nightly troubles to my friend. However, I told him I was haunted by bad dreams and we put our heads together to end my horrors with medicine.

I'll admit that the medicine was effective and the dreadful portrait began to visit me less often. But what did it mean? Was this extraordinary vision just my imagination? Was it only a personal complaint, then, and not an attack by an external power? That, of course, does not follow. The evil spirit, in the shape of that portrait, may have been just as near me, just as energetic, just as malignant, although I did not see him. A healthy system may, for all we know, guard us against influences which could, otherwise, make life terrible. Special bodily conditions may be necessary to certain spiritual phenomena. The operation succeeds sometimes – sometimes fails – that's all.

I found afterwards that Tom had his troubles too. But I knew nothing of these yet. One night, I was – for once – sleeping deeply, when I was woken by a step outside my room, followed by a loud noise. This turned out to be a large candlestick, thrown with all his strength down the staircase. And almost at the same time, Tom opened my door and came into my room backwards, looking very excited and worried.

I jumped out of bed and held him by the arm before I had any idea of where I was. There we were – in our nightclothes – standing by the open door, staring down the stairs. The sickly light of a clouded moon was shining through a window below.

"What's the matter, Tom? What's the matter with you?" I asked, shaking him with impatience.

He took a long breath before he answered me, and even then it was not very coherently.

"It's nothing, nothing at all. Where's the candle, Dick? It's dark! I had a candle!"

"Yes, dark enough," I said. "But what's the matter? Why don't you speak, Tom?"

"The matter? Oh, it's all over. It must have been a dream, nothing but a dream, don't you think so?"

"Of course" I said, feeling very nervous. "It was a dream."

"I thought there was a man in my room, and... and I jumped out of bed; and... and... where's the candle?"

"In your room, most likely," I said. "Shall I go and bring it?"

"No, stay here! Don't go! It doesn't matter – it was all a dream. Lock the door, Dick. I'll stay here with you. I feel nervous. So, Dick, light your candle and open the window – I feel terrible."

I did as he asked, and covering himself in one of my blankets, he sat close beside me on my bed.

Everybody knows how contagious fear is and so I did not want to hear the details of the nightmare which had so upset him.

"Don't worry about your dream, Tom," I said, really in a panic but pretending to be calm. "Let's talk about something else. It's clear that this dirty old house disagrees with us both, and so we can look out for a new place, don't you think? – at once!"

Tom agreed, and, after an interval, said: "I've been thinking, Dick, it's a long time since I saw my father and I've made up my mind to go tomorrow and return in a day or two. You can rent rooms for us in the meantime."

I thought this decision, obviously the result of the dream which had scared him, would probably vanish next morning with the shadows of night. But I was mistaken. Tom left at dawn, agreeing that as soon as I'd found suitable rooms, I was to let him know.

Now, although I was anxious to change my room, nearly a week passed before I managed and my letter to Tom was sent. In the meantime, a minor adventure or two had taken place, which, stupid as they now seem, certainly made me want to move even more than before.

A night or two after Tom left, I was sitting by my bedroom fire with the door locked. I had thrown aside my book on medicine and was reading a magazine, when I heard a step on the stairs. It was two o'clock and the streets were silent – the sounds were, therefore, perfectly clear. There was a slow, heavy step, like an old man's, coming down the staircase from above. And, what made the sound more unusual was that the feet which made it were bare.

I knew well that nobody but myself had any business in the house. It was clear too that the person who was coming downstairs did not want to hide his movements; but, on the contrary, appeared to make even more noise than was necessary. When the step reached the stairs outside my room, it seemed to stop; and I expected every moment to see my door open and the man from the portrait to enter. I was, however, pleased to hear the steps continuing down the stairs again.

Now, by the time the sound had stopped, I was very excited. I listened, but there was nothing. I bravely opened my door and, in a loud voice, shouted, "Who's there?" There was no answer but the ringing of my own voice through the empty old house. There is, I think, something most unpleasant in the sound of one's own voice under such circumstances. It doubled my sense of isolation, and my fear increased when I noticed that the door, which I was sure I had left open, was closed behind me. I went into my room again as quickly as I could, where I remained very uncomfortably till morning.

There was no return of my barefoot guest the next night, but the night after that, when I was in bed in the dark – somewhere, I suppose, about the same time as before, I clearly heard the old man again walking downstairs.

This time I had more courage. I jumped out of bed, grabbed a metal bar and, in a moment, was in the hall. The sound had stopped by this time. And, guess my horror when I saw, or thought I saw, a black monster, whether like a man or a bear I couldn't say, standing, with its back to the wall facing me, with a pair of greenish eyes shining. Now, I must be honest and admit that the cupboard with our plates and cups on it stood just there, though at that moment I didn't remember it. At the same time, I never could satisfy myself that I was cheated by my own imagination in this matter. This vision began to come towards me – or so it seemed. I threw the metal bar at its head with all my strength and ran into my room and double-locked the door. Then, in another minute, I heard the bare feet walk down the stairs, till the sound stopped in the hall again.

If the vision of the night before was a delusion playing with the dark outlines of our cupboard, and if its horrid eyes were nothing but a pair of teacups, I'd had, at all events, the satisfaction of throwing the metal bar at it, as the pieces of my tea service showed. From this evidence, I did my best to reassure myself that he was not real, but I couldn't. What could I say about those bare feet, their sound on the entire staircase, and at a time when everybody would be asleep? I dreaded the night coming again.

It came with a thunderstorm and depressing rain. Earlier than usual the streets grew silent and, by twelve o'clock, nothing but the rain could be heard.

I made myself as comfortable as I could. I lit two candles instead of one. I didn't go to bed and was ready to go out, candle in hand, to see the being, if it was visible, which troubled my house. I was nervous and tried to interest myself in my books. I walked up and down my room, listening for the dreaded noise.

Silence, meanwhile, grew more silent, and darkness darker. There was nothing but the sound of the wind that had travelled over the Dublin mountains. In the middle of this great city, I began to feel alone – just in time to hear the naked feet going down the stairs again.

I took a candle. As I crossed the floor I stopped to listen. The steps continued. I hesitated for some seconds at the door before I opened it. When I looked out into the hall, it was perfectly empty – there was no monster standing there and, as the hated sound stopped, I walked to the stairs. Horror of horrors! Within a stair or two beneath the spot where I stood, the unearthly steps hit the floor. My eye saw something moving; it was grey and heavy. It was the largest grey rat I had ever seen or imagined.

I went mad when I saw this rat because – laugh at me, if you like – it looked at me with real spite. And, as it moved about and looked up into my face almost from between my feet, I saw – I felt it then and know it now, the gaze and the face of the man in the portrait, changed into the face of the rat in front of me.

I walked into my room again with a feeling of hate and horror I cannot describe and locked my door as if a lion was on the other side. I felt in my soul that the rat – yes, the rat I'd just seen – was that evil man, walking through the house.

Next morning I was walking through the streets early and posted a note to Tom calling him back. On my return, however, I found a note from him saying he was arriving the next day. I was doubly happy at this, because I had managed to get rooms; and because the change of scene and return of my friend were especially welcome after last night's half-ridiculous, half-horrible adventure.

I slept in my new room that night and, next morning, returned for breakfast to the haunted house, where I was certain Tom would call immediately on his arrival.

I was quite right – he came and almost his first question was about our change of address.

"Thank God," he said, on hearing that everything was arranged. "I'm delighted. I promise you nothing could get me ever again to stay a night in this old house."

"We haven't had a relaxed hour since we came to live here." I told him my adventure with the old rat.

"Well, if that was all," said my cousin, "I don't think I'd have minded it very much."

"Ay, but its eye, its face, Tom. If you'd seen it, you'd have felt it might be anything but what it seemed."

"I think the best solution in this case would be a cat," he said.

"Let's hear about your own adventure that night," I said unpleasantly.

He looked uneasy.

"You'll hear it, Dick. I'll tell you," he said. "But I'd feel ill, telling it here."

Though he said this as a joke, I think it was serious. Our maid was in a corner of the room, packing our things. She soon stopped working and, with mouth and eyes wide open, listened:

"I saw it three times, Dick – three times. And I'm certain it meant me harm. I was in danger – in extreme danger; because I would have gone mad, unless I had escaped. Thank God I did escape.

"The first night, I was lying in bed. I was really wide awake, though I had put out my candle, and was lying as quietly as if I'd been asleep; but my thoughts were cheerful.

"I think it must have been two o'clock at least when I thought I heard a sound in that dark alcove at the far end of the bedroom. I sat up once or twice in bed, but could see nothing, so I decided it must be mice. I felt nothing more than curiosity, and after a few minutes stopped thinking about it.

"While lying like this, suddenly I saw an old man, rather fat and square, in a sort of red dressing gown, with a black cap on his head, moving stiffly and slowly from the alcove across the floor of the bedroom, and then passing the end of my bed. He had something under his arm. His head hung a little at one side and, oh God! when I saw his face..."

Tom stopped for a while, and then said: "That awful face! I'll never forget it to the day I die. Without turning to the right or left, he passed by me.

"I had no more power to speak or move than if I'd been a corpse. For hours after it disappeared, I was too terrified and weak to move. As soon as daylight came, I examined the room, and especially where the intruder had walked, but there was nothing to show anybody had been there.

"I now began to recover a little. I was exhausted and at last I fell into a feverish sleep. I came down late and, finding you depressed from your dreams about the portrait, whose face I had just seen that night, I didn't feel like talking about it. In fact, I was trying to persuade myself that the whole thing was a delusion and I didn't like to re-live the hated ideas of the past night.

"It needed some nerve, I can tell you, to go to my haunted room the next night and lie down quietly in the same bed," continued Tom. "I did so with great fear. That night, however, passed quietly, as did the next and two or three more after that. I grew more confident.

"The vision had been very odd. It had crossed the room without seeing me. I hadn't disturbed it. Why, then, did it cross the room at all, allowing me to see it? Besides, how had I noticed it? It was a dark night. I had no candle. There was no fire. And yet I saw it as clearly as I have ever seen a human being! It had to be a dream and I was determined that a dream it should be.

"One of the most remarkable phenomena connected with untruths is the vast number of deliberate lies we tell ourselves – the person we can least expect to deceive. In all this, I hardly need to tell you, Dick, I was simply lying to myself and did not believe one word of it. Yet I went on, as men will do who tire themselves into believing something simply by repeating the lie; so I hoped to convince myself at last that there was no ghost.

"He had not appeared a second time – that certainly was a comfort. So I jumped into bed, put out my candle and fell fast asleep.

"From this deep sleep, I suddenly woke up. I knew I'd had a horrible dream; but what it was I could not remember. I felt confused and feverish. I sat up in the bed and looked around the room. Moonlight came in through the curtainless window; everything was as I'd last seen it; except that I could still hear pleasant singing from someone on his way home. I lay down again, with my face towards the fireplace, and closing my eyes, did my best to think of nothing but the song, which was growing fainter in the distance.

"As the music died away, I started to doze.

"Now – will you believe it, Dick? – I woke to see the same figure standing right in front of me, gazing at me with its stony and devilish face, not two metres from the bedside."

Tom stopped here, and wiped the sweat from his face. I felt very strange. The girl was as pale as Tom and, as we were in the middle of these adventures, we were all grateful for the daylight and the noise out of doors.

"For about three seconds I saw it plainly; then it grew unclear. But, for a long time, there was something like dark mist where it had stood between me and the wall and I felt sure that he was still there. I took my clothes downstairs to the hall and dressed there, with the door half open, then went out into the street and walked about the town till morning, when I came back in a miserable state of nervousness and exhaustion. I was such a fool, Dick, to be ashamed of telling you how I became so upset. I thought you'd laugh at me, especially as I had treated your ghosts with contempt. So, I kept my tale of horror to myself.

"Now, Dick, you'll hardly believe me, when I tell you that for many nights after this last experience, I didn't go to my room at all. I used to sit up for a while in the living room after you'd gone up to bed; and then let myself out of the front door and sit at a hotel until the last guest went off. Then I got through the night by walking the streets till morning.

"For more than a week I never slept in my bed. Sometimes I dozed in a chair during the day but I had no regular sleep.

"I decided we should get another house; but I couldn't persuade myself to tell you the reason and I somehow put it off from day to day, although my life was so miserable.

"One afternoon I decided to enjoy an hour's sleep on your bed. I hated mine. I had never been back, except to unmake my bed every day, unless Martha should discover my secret – that I was not at home at night.

"Unfortunately, you'd locked your bedroom and taken away the key. I went into my own room to disturb the sheets, as usual, and make the bed look like someone had slept in it. Now, a variety of events came together to cause the dreadful scene that happened that night. In the first place, I was literally exhausted and desperate for sleep. The effect on my nerves was like a drug and made me less worried than I usually was. Then again, a little bit of the window was open, a pleasant freshness filled the room and, on top of all this, it was a sunny day. What was there to stop me enjoying an hour's nap here? The bright light of day filled every corner of the room.

"I threw off my coat and lay down, limiting myself to half-an-hour's doze in a bed for a change.

"I imagined, with my mind and body worn out from lack of sleep, that half-an-hour's nap was possible. Of course, my sleep was death-like, long and dreamless.

"With no fear of any kind, I woke gently, but completely. It was, as you have good reason to remember, long past midnight – I believe, about two o'clock. When sleep has been deep and long enough, one often wakes up in this way, suddenly, gently and completely.

"There was a figure sitting on that old sofa near the fireplace. Its back was towards me, but I couldn't be mistaken. It turned slowly round and there was the stony face. There was now no doubt that it knew I was there because it got up and drew close to the bed. There was a rope around its neck.

"I remained for some seconds frozen by the ghost's gaze. He came close to the bed and seemed about to get on it. The next moment I was on the floor at the far side and, in another moment, was out in the hall.

"But the shadow of death was still on me. It stood before me near the stairs, and with one end of the rope round its own neck, was making a noose at the other, as if to throw over mine. And while it was doing this, it wore a smile so dreadful but I remember nothing more until I found myself in your room.

"I had a wonderful escape, Dick – there's no doubting that. No-one can imagine what it is for flesh and blood to stand there with such a thing. Dick, Dick, a shadow has passed over me and I will never be the same again – never, Dick, never!"

Our maid, a woman of fifty-two, listened as Tom's story continued and, little by little, came nearer to us, till glancing over her shoulder now and then, she stood close behind us.

"I've often heard about it," she now said, "but I never believed it till now. But you shouldn't have slept in the back bedroom. My mother didn't want to let me work in that room even in the day time, let alone to spend the night in it. She says it was his own bedroom."

"Whose own bedroom?" we asked.

"His – the old Judge's – Judge Horrock's." and she looked fearfully round.

"But did he die there?"

"Die there! No, not quite there," she said. "He hanged himself over the staircase. It was in the alcove they found the handles of the skipping-rope cut off and the knife he cut them with. It was his housekeeper's daughter's rope, my mother often told me, and the child used to wake screaming from her sleep afterwards. They said it was the spirit of the old Judge that was torturing her. She'd scream 'Oh, the master! The master! He's coming for me! Mother, don't let me go!' And so the poor girl died at last."

"How long ago was all this?" I asked.

"How would I know?" she answered. "But it must be a long time ago, for the housekeeper was an old woman, with not a tooth left and older than eighty when my mother was first married. And they said she was a fine woman when the old Judge came to his end. My mother's not far off eighty years old herself now. What made it worse for the old villain to frighten the little girl out of the world the way he did, was the poor little girl was his own child, or that's what everybody said. He was by all accounts an old villain and the cruellest judge that ever was known in Ireland."

"From what you said about the danger of sleeping in that bedroom," I said, "I suppose there were stories about the ghost appearing there to others."

"Well, some said so," she answered. "And why not? It was in that same room he slept for more than twenty years. And the body was lying in the same bed after his death and put in the coffin there, too, and carried out to his grave from it."

Then the maid added: "I'll go down and send up Joe Gavvey to pack up the rest of the things and bring all the luggage across to your new rooms."

And so we all left together, each of us breathing more freely, I have no doubt, as we left for the last time.

Now, I may add the catastrophe which the house eventually suffered, which was simply this. About two years after my story it was rented by a doctor, who called himself Baron Duhlstorf. He filled the windows with bottles of specimens and the newspapers with the usual lying advertisements about his skills. This gentleman set fire to his bed and burnt the house down.

I have now told you my own and Tom's adventures and now that I have kept my promise, I wish you a very good night and pleasant dreams.